


acid

by robin_hoods



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Biting, Blood, M/M, Post-Canon, Rough Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-13
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 11:50:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10616328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robin_hoods/pseuds/robin_hoods
Summary: Aoba wipes his nose again, and it looks like it’s stopped bleeding: the blood has started to dry a little, flaking on his skin. He licks his lips, clearing some of the remaining blood away, and Yoshikiri stares at his mouth, unable to deny he does occasionally get a little distracted by Aoba’s looks.





	

**Author's Note:**

> So, sometime last year I randomly came across some cosplay pictures of this ship and was like "Oh, that's cool, I wonder if there's fic", because I wanted to read some. Turns out, there wasn't any fic.
> 
> So I just wrote one myself. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Aoba is heavy against his side as Yoshikiri half drags, half walks him back to his own apartment, waiting around the corner. He wouldn’t even have thought of bringing him home, but it’s a pain in the ass to go back to their hide-out just to clean up their act. They’ve won the fight against the Dragon Zombies this time around, but Ei Li-Pei and his gang will be back sooner or later.

Probably sooner, he thinks, shaking Aoba because he needs to stop dragging his feet. He’s a little out of it after one of the Dragon Zombies had dragged him onto the ground and punched him in the face several times before one of the Blue Squares – Hojo – had dragged him off. He’s probably gonna be okay; Aoba’s had worse than a blow to the head, but there was an unspoken agreement with the rest of them that someone should at least look after him for a while. He tightens the hold he has on Aoba’s waist and lets go of the arm slung over his neck so he can unlock the door.

Yoshikiri sets him on the ground by the door, and Aoba looks at him through half-lidded eyes, a trickle of blood coming out of one nostril, covering his lips, and his chin. It’s already staining the collar of his shirt.

“You look fucking terrible,” he says as he opens the fridge, because he does. Aoba reaches up a hand to wipe his nose, but only smears the blood further onto his cheek. He looks at his hand distastefully, and then gives up.

“Likewise,” he tells Yoshikiri, and then grins.

“There’s a difference between looking like you’ve just been in a fight, and looking you’ve just had the shit kicked out of you, though,” he says, because even though Aoba has been the leader of Blue Square for as long as he can remember, it doesn’t mean he can’t make fun of him. “I bet you’re gonna have a massive shiner, tomorrow.”

Aoba frowns at him, and touches the corner of his eye socket, which is already darkening. “Do you have any ice?”

“Do I look like your personal nursemaid?” He shuts the refrigerator with his foot, and takes a long drink from a bottle of water. “And no, I don’t. I have frozen crabsticks. That’s it.”

“You brought me to your place?” He actually looks a little surprised.

“Obviously. How hard did they hit that head of yours, anyway?” He usually catches on more quickly, so that must have been one hell of a punch. He screws the top back onto the bottle, and then throws it into Aoba’s direction – thankfully not hitting him in the head. Instead of taking a sip, though, he just presses the bottle against his face and breathes an unmistakable sigh of relief.

“Hard enough, apparently,” Aoba finally says, his eyes still closed.

“You’re usually not that careless,” Yoshikiri says, taking a seat on the floor.

“We’re not usually ambushed by fifteen different guys,” Aoba retorts, and opens the one eye he’s not covering with the bottle. “They had to know we were coming.”

“Could’ve been a trap,” Yoshikiri suggests. “Maybe they spread the rumour themselves.” It’s not like they haven’t done it before. People post so much crap on the internet it’s hard to believe anything online is real, or true.

“Trap or no trap, they outnumbered us. We should’ve been better prepared.” Aoba wipes his nose again, and it looks like it’s stopped bleeding: the blood has started to dry a little, flaking on his skin. He licks his lips, clearing some of the remaining blood away, and Yoshikiri stares at his mouth, unable to deny he does occasionally get a little distracted by Aoba’s looks.

If his mouth had been just as sweet as his face, he might have made a move at some point. If he hadn’t known, he definitely would’ve but he’s seen Aoba charm people, with a sweet smile, with kindness that doesn’t belong on his face.

That’s what unnerves Yoshikiri more than anything.   There’s always something more than violence thrumming underneath his skin, waiting to pounce and take advantage.

“Better prepared, yeah,” he mumbles. He watches Aoba unscrew the top of the bottle, watches him take one sip, two, a drop of water dripping down from the corner of his mouth.

Aoba rolls his eyes when he catches his stare, and then throws the bottle back in Yoshikiri’s direction, where it miraculously lands right in his lap.

“Get your head out of your ass,” he says next. He doesn’t say more, but he doesn’t have to. They’ve known each other for too many years, Aoba clearly knows how to read Yoshikiri, and sees what he wants plastered on his face. It annoys him, a little, because he’s never considered himself to be easy to read – at least not before meeting Aoba, but he’s a freak of nature.

“Fuck off.” It’s not much of a retort, but he likes seeing Aoba scowl anyway. He knows Aoba considers himself to be above the rest of the Blue Squares – and for the most part, he is. He’s smart, he’s cunning, he’s a little messed up – most of the things Yoshikiri would want in a leader, anyway. Aoba doesn’t ask for respect from his fellow Blue Squares, he demands it by being cold and calculating when planning their attacks, and vicious during their fights. Aoba’s not their best fighter by a long shot, but he’s always there, ready to take on responsibility.

There are probably better leaders out there, but he doesn’t know them. Not like he knows Aoba. (Trust, though, is a whole other can of worms.)

 “I have to go,” Aoba says, and before Yoshikiri can open his mouth he stands and presses a hand against the wall for balance, and he actually sways back and forth a little.

“Are you nuts?  Sit your ass on the floor,” he says, before Aoba even thinks about taking a step towards the door and consequently falling over on his face.

“Fine.” He sits down again, but he doesn’t look happy about it. “Hand me the bottle again, would you?” He rolls his eyes when Yoshikiri sighs dramatically and picks it off the floor, holding it in front of Aoba’s face when he’s crouched by his side. “Thanks.” He reaches forward to take it, but Yoshikiri holds it up so he can’t take it just yet.

“Something else, first.”

“Just give me the damn bottle, Yoshikiri,” he snaps, more than a little irritable at this point. Usually he wouldn’t rile him up this much, but it’s only them now. Aoba stares up at him, his eyes narrow, one slightly more so than the other as it has started to swell.

Yoshikiri looks him in the eye and debates with himself on what he should do. Originally, he’d thought he’d tease him a little. He can take it. Despite his injuries, Aoba is quick to retaliate, and his mood has shifted from tired and slightly annoyed, to very annoyed and on the verge of getting angry.

He likes pushing his buttons, to say the least, see where it gets them. “What?” Aoba grits out at last when the silence has gone on too long for his taste. He must have seen his desire, read it in his eyes, somehow, because Aoba raises a hand, tightens it on his collar and brings their faces closer together.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he mutters, nearly against Yoshikiri’s lips. Aoba’s actually kissing him—he bites down on Yoshikiri’s lower lip a few seconds later, and then pushes him away. He rubs at his mouth, just as Aoba orders, “Bottle,” holding up his hand.

He keeps his eyes open and focused on him while he takes a swallow, and then puts it back against his eye.

“Seriously?” he says. And then, “That’s it?”

“I bet it’s more than any hypothetical girlfriend has ever given you.”

“Fuck you.”

“No thanks.”

At least five whole minutes pass, and neither has moved, despite the tension. Aoba finally removes the bottle from his face, saying something about how it’s too warm now to properly cool the area. Who cares? 

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Yoshikiri tells him, rather bitter about it.

“I know.”

“This is all your fault.”

Aoba regards him coolly. “How come?”

“Because you hog them. All of the girls.”

“How can I do that, when I don’t even have a girlfriend?”  It would be an innocent reply, if it weren’t for the smug look on his face. He knows he could get a girlfriend, he just doesn’t want to for some bizarre reason.

“One of these days I’m gonna fucking kill you,” Yoshikiri mumbles. 

“You keep telling yourself that. So you’re jealous of me, huh?” Aoba matter-of-factly states, scrutinising him even further. “Or is it them you’re jealous of?”

“Who is this ‘them’?!”

“You know what I’m talking about.” Aoba scoots over to him, and the bottle falls over, neither of them paying any attention to it. Yoshikiri’s not exactly used to having that intense gaze focused on him. Aoba usually reserves that look for more serious matters – or maybe Neko, when he says something dumb (again). “Don’t say ‘that’s it’ and then pretend nothing’s happened.”

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  If he keeps his mouth shut now, it means he won’t have to admit he actually wants Aoba to kiss him again. It’s embarrassing, okay?

“Yes, you do,” Aoba says. Up close like this, Yoshikiri can see there’s a burst blood vessel in his right eye, colouring the white red. “Don’t you always take what you want, anyway? Or are you faltering now because it’s me?”

He swallows, the sound loud in his ears. Yeah, he knows it’s because it’s Aoba, but he’s not about to say that out loud.

“Go on. Or did you want permission, first?”

Aoba’s smirking slightly, and it’s the only incentive that Yoshikiri needs to grab him by the front of his shirt before pushing him down onto the floor.

Not a particularly fair fight, he could swing Aoba across one of his shoulders and still wouldn’t be very bothered, but Aoba doesn’t protest or seem to care that he’s being manhandled. He probably just thinks it’s hilarious. Knowing him, he’s making fun of him inside his head.

He doesn’t hold back when he kisses him – it’s not as if Aoba’s a girl, and it’s not as he didn’t try to just bite half his mouth off either. He can deal with it.

Aoba gasps into his mouth, grabs a fistful of hair – but he doesn’t push him away, or punch him in the face, so that’s a good sign.

He can still taste the faint trace of blood on Aoba’s lips, not that he really cares. It makes him feel like they’re not – ferociously – kissing, but fighting each other instead. Aoba is definitely aggressive enough for it, pulling his hair and then biting his lip again, albeit not that hard this time around.

It’s really nothing like Yoshikiri had expected it to be. He’s shared a few kisses, here and there – all of them with girls, and all of them perfectly chaste – but Aoba would never kiss him sweetly. It makes him wonder who Aoba has kissed before, who would allow him to kiss them like this.

There’s no tenderness there. He doesn’t particularly want it to be there, either.

When they break apart – or Aoba pushes him away, he can’t remember – saliva stretches between them, and he wipes at his mouth. His lips feel sore already. Aoba catches his breath on the mat, his arms perpendicular to his body. They must look the same, Yoshikiri thinks, because there’s a light blush across Aoba’s cheeks – and his own feel hot as well.

“That good enough for you?” he states, trying to regain his composure.

“Mm,” Aoba says, his eyes closed.

“Or do you need more convincing.” He’s not quite realising yet how bold he’s being.

“Some other time. Maybe.”

It’s the closest thing to a yes he’s ever gotten, so he’ll take it.

He’s not particularly sad to see Aoba leave, later, bruise blossoming around one of his eyes. He just says he’s going home and that’s it. He doesn’t sway as he walks out the door, nor does he look back. Yoshikiri doesn’t expect him to. He wouldn’t either – would he?


End file.
